Credere
by Nightwitch87
Summary: Post-Babylon one-shot with flashbacks. "The understanding she so desperately seeks is limited by the very fact that she is but an infinitely tiny part of the cosmos trying to make sense of the whole thing." "If he could locate that which is missing, he would be whole. And yet he has built a life around these holes that are part of him, a whole existence based on it."
1. Credo

**Author's Note & Disclaimer:** **Hey everyone, so this is my first shot at writing for** _ **X-Files**_ **. The tone is hard to capture, I think, but I did my best. If you are reading this, please take the time to review. I know it seems like an effort or not important at all, but getting any kind of feedback is both very helpful and the best reward ever imaginable. Seriously. Every time I open my inbox and see one of those "Review:…" emails, I get nervous and incredibly happy all at once and have to wait for a moment before opening it.**

 **Obviously, I own nothing, all characters belong to Fox and whoever holds the copyright. I am just writing this for fun in anticipation of the upcoming finale.**

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" _Water on Earth moves continually through the water cycle of evaporation and transpiration (evapotranspiration), condensation, precipitation, and runoff, usually reaching the sea." - Wikipedia: Water_

 **Credere**

Science. The way one oxygen and two hydrogen atoms come together to form H2O, the compound that gives life to this planet. One would think there is more to it than this, but the simple fact is that its atoms are held together by polar covalent bonds, while the molecules are connected by hydrogen bonds. There is a certain poetry to how water can pass through different states and still remain, essentially, water. But basic chemistry is all there is to it. It is what currently allows her to relax her muscles in the warmth, what allows her head to let go as she lets herself go under, submerging her ears until all she can hear is the rushing of her own blood. Her face is the only thing that remains above the surface while her hair fans out around her. She has always loved taking baths – not necessarily the extremely foamy bubble bath kind, but the kind where the scent is so heavy it makes her drowsy, the water allowing her body to feel light as a feather so she might disappear in it. She likes touching her skin in the scented water, all soft and smooth, feeling as if she is floating in some sort of womb.

 _His lips brush against her neck, barely touching the point above her shoulder, and she lets out a girlish giggle she hardly recognizes, leaning her head away from him._

" _Agent Scully? We may have hit on something here."_

" _Shut up." She splashes him behind her as his fingers continue to run up and down the outside of her arms, making the little hairs on them stand up. She barely notices that the water has cooled down, the skin on her hands wrinkling in it._

" _Or what?" he asks playfully._

" _Or I may choose Skinner after all."_

" _Ouch. Stop."_

 _There's something to be said about bald men. You know, studies have shown that-"_

" _I may have to get out and puke."_

Science. Pheromones and instant attraction depending on hormonal levels, evolutionary reasons for this evolved phenomenon or social construct (depending on who you ask) called "love". An initial feeling which is based on appraised survival fitness and investment in offspring to ensure genetic survival as long-term partners grow more alike and resentful of each other at the same time. But they have no offspring. Not anymore.

 _The wind blows across the bare fields, barely raising a movement among the shorn stubble that remains around this season. The backless wooden bench is cold underneath her thighs. If she ran her hand across it, she would run the risk of drawing a splinter out of the moist wood. Yet in spite of the grey clouds hanging low, in spite of the sting in her cheeks and the way her skin feels stretched too far across her face, she is glad to be outside. She is relieved he agreed to talk here, in this deserted setting, rather than over packed bags around the clutter of memories. There isn't much left to say, either way, and she is unsure if she has the courage now, if she can find the words. She had to get out of that house._

 _He is the one to break the silence, calm as a summer's day. "You are not coming back."_

" _No" she replies calmly, "I am not." There is no 'not for now'. No 'I'll stay in D.C. a little longer after the conference'. No 'needing space', no 'taking a break'. This is not how they talk. She won't insult him by couching her decision in euphemisms._

 _He, in turn, will not make a scene. "I figured…from the bags."_

 _She looks at him, studying his now grim face, the way he hasn't shaved in days, his graying temples and the lines on his forehead. She wants to remember this. Call it masochism. She can't recall the last time they touched. "Don't you want to know why?"_

" _I think I already do. Self-preservation."_

" _Something like that." Her eyes are beginning to sting against her will and she blinks it back, not wanting to make this harder than it already is. It's his complete resignation that gets her. She wasn't expecting him to fight her, but the way he is slumped on this bench, a picture of defeat, the way he simply accepts her decision, is not how she wants things to end. This is not who they are. And she can't take pity on him now, because if she does like so many times before, she will never leave. And they will never change. And she can't do this anymore. "I tried, Mulder. I really did."_

" _I know." He glances up at the sky, studying a flock of birds flying by overhead, their black wings beating fiercely against the wind._

" _But I need to do more."_

 _This gets a frown out of him as he is still watching those damn birds. "I never stopped you, Scully."_

" _That's not the issue. Mulder, I want you to get well, I_ want _you to be happy…and myself. But the evidence suggests that we haven't really been helping each other in that department, have we? That's why I'm doing this."_

" _After 20 years?"_

" _Yes. After 20 years."_

Science. The incorrect rejection of a true null hypothesis. And the premise that, as long as she keeps the probability of this at below 5%, this is somehow okay. It's perfectly acceptable to take that chance, although 0.049 or 0.051 really doesn't make that much of a difference, mathematically speaking. But which powerful test is there for relationships? How can she reject or fail to reject the null hypothesis that this has no chance? The only measure she has is her own happiness and fulfillment, which she does experience in moments – with or without him. Her pride at completing a successful surgery, at having her _own things_ to take care of, away from him and the dark cloud that looms over them. Her joy, her life in investigating these impossible cases with him. But there are too many confounding factors to establish a causal relationship, and she lacks a control group. There are piles on top of piles of despair and hopelessness, the threat of loss, the crippling fear that kept them together for so many years. Need alone is not enough. So how does one differentiate?

 _He rubs his thumb against the outside of her hand, slowly at first, then applying more pressure as his arm is wrapped around her from behind, holding her like he never wants to let her go. They have been in this position before, lying in bed with her back to his front, and she is glad of it because when they are like this, they are close yet they don't have to face each other. He doesn't have to see the tears running out of the corners of her eyes down into the pillow, soaking it. But he is here, his voice near her ear, his body warmth against hers, and she is glad of it. Glad they needed no words between them for him to take her back to his place –their place- after they scattered her mother's ashes, glad he knows what this is and isn't, glad he seems utterly crushed at this loss, too, confirming that the soft spot her mother had for him all these years wasn't entirely misplaced. Glad that when things get rough, it is always, always him. And yet it doesn't fill the void, doesn't seep through every crack in her foundation, doesn't wrap that protective coat around her that she once felt. Some things are too big to forget. They weigh on her too heavily, and the passage of time hasn't let them fade. There is no acceptance in the lack of resolution._

" _I don't think she was trying to hurt you" he whispers into her hair. "She never would have wanted that."_

" _Doesn't matter."_

" _Doesn't it? Her intention in saying these things to you…to us?"_

" _I'll never know, Mulder. There's no way of finding out. And it hurts either way."_

" _I know." She barely feels his lips against the back of her shoulder, kissing it. "I know."_

 _Curling her fingers around his, she takes his hand. "We gave up our child. No other mammal would do that."_

" _Bears do."_

" _I really don't care what bears do. We abandoned our only child."_

" _To keep him safe, Scully. We've been over this-"_

" _What if we've been telling ourselves a lie all this time? What if it was a selfish choice after all?"_

 _He seems either struck by this question, or unwilling to answer it. Or unable to. "Either way, William grew up thinking other people were his parents. He grew up in a family who wanted to take him in. I know it hurts us more than anything, but for him…these people are his parents. He is safe. He is loved."_

" _You don't know that. What's the point in telling ourselves a comforting story if we will never know the truth?"_

" _What's the point in telling ourselves a horror story if we will never know the truth? Except to punish ourselves."_

" _Maybe it's a deserved punishment."_

" _Dana…"_

Science and the manifold ways it has failed her over the years. She can run to it for explanations in an endless cycle, and they will be multifaceted. Alien threats, government conspiracies, mysterious illnesses, all the big secrets can and will be explained. And hers? This depends on who you ask, again. Maybe William was – _is_ \- a mutation, the product of genetic engineering, and she had to give him away to keep him safe. This is the version of the story she clings to. Or maybe she was alone and scared, suffering from depression and/or anxiety and projecting those fears on him. Maybe she was _too weak_ to be a good mother.

 _He is a miracle. Their miracle, with ten tiny fingers and ten perfect toes, human skin, a human head, innocent eyes. No foreign invader to her body to be feared, no creature to be rejected. He is her baby. Hers. Theirs, but mostly hers. Each sleepless night and each breastfeeding struggle is proof that he is a human child, a living, breathing being who needs her. She refused to let herself think of him as her son, even after she found out the sex of the baby, because up to the last minute, she was afraid of losing him. There are miracles too great to be unencumbered, too good to be true. William isn't. He screams, feeds, spits up, poops like any other baby, robbing her body of food and sleep, exhausting and frustrating and exhilarating her. He is everything._

 _Her breath hitches as she stands in the doorway watching them, towel drying her hair. She wishes she had a camera to capture this. William is lying on his tummy on Mulder's chest, fast asleep with his head facing her. Mulder is watching TV at a near muted volume, lazing around on the sofa with a couple of pillows behind his back. He looks over at her, a small smile playing around his lips. "Good shower?"_

 _She walks over to them, strangely conscious of her bathrobe as he takes her in, and sits down on the edge of the sofa in front of his feet. "I finally feel and smell human again."_

" _I was gonna say…"_

" _I had a baby, Mulder. What's your excuse?" She can't remember the last time she washed her hair. This was the first shower since the birth that took longer than five minutes. She looks around, noticing the beginnings of order or rather, the removal of clutter. "You cleaned up the living room."_

" _I started, but…" He puts his hand on William's back, stroking it gently, gazing down at him. "…he was crying, so…I know you are not supposed to let babies sleep on their stomachs, but I was watching him."_

" _It's all right." She smiles faintly at his concern. Somehow, watching her son sleep on Mulder's chest is making her tired as well. It stirs a desire to rest, to get comfortable in her little bubble and forget about the dangers of the world outside as the rain taps against her windows. She could let down her guard. She could let herself feel that there is hope here, that they_ _could be something. The word "family" has begun to lurk along the threshold of her consciousness of late, creeping in when she least expects it._

" _You know, the Beng in West Africa believe that babies come directly from the afterlife, where all of our ancestors live in perfect harmony. That's why infants are said to understand all languages. But as they grow part of our world, they lose this ability...and their connection."_

" _There are many cultural myths around infancy." She reaches over, barely touching one of William's clutched little fists. "Do you speak all languages, little one?"_

" _Do you think he could have been sent to us, Scully?" he asks as earnestly as only he can, his eyes full of the thing that always teeters between hope and insanity._

" _By an angel in a dream?" she replies drily, ignoring the surge of pain at his words. This would be exactly the kind of thing Melissa would have suggested. "Do I really have to explain to you how babies are made, Mulder?"_

Science. The endless arguments about the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics, Einstein's rejection of wave function as a description of physical reality, The way the second law of thermodynamics moves the universe to an increasingly disorganized state, with life as a mere phase along the way. But if one can never determine the exact position and speed of a particle at the same time, how can it be understood? What do probabilistic theories mean for causality? The understanding she so desperately seeks is limited by the very fact that she is but an infinitely tiny part of the cosmos trying to make sense of the whole thing. She is mortal, limited by time and space as well as her simple cognitive structures. She will never know God –whatever God is- and at one point, that was almost okay. Now, however, she seeks a certainty she can't find, or at least a probabilistic knowledge. She wants to let go of the past, to know the present and future. Yet even if she could read all the books of (wo)mankind, soak up the entire knowledge of her species, she would still not know. Her methodology is failing her, as there is no certainty in this world other than the fact that she will die one day.

And yet…

She cannot breathe under water.

And yet…

She breaks through the surface, sitting up, stroking back her hair, filling her lungs with air.

And yet…

She wants to believe.


	2. Mea Culpa

**Author's Note:** **Surprise! Here's an entirely unplanned second chapter of this story that came out against my will. Thank you for all the love on the first chapter! Furthermore, since she unsubtly demanded it and is equally obsessed with Scully, this chapter is dedicated to Mari in all its Muldery, pseudo-literary glory. And also because it's her birthday. Lame surprise. :D Happy birthday! 3**

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Hope: the expectation of something desired; desire combined with expectation. Also: a piece of enclosed land, e.g. in the midst of fens or marshes or of waste land generally. In Christianity: personified as one of the three heavenly graces. In psychology: an optimistic attitude of mind based on an expectation of positive outcomes related to events and circumstances in one's life or the world at large. Of course, like anything, it is a highly contentious subject in his discipline, since the actual real life effects of so-called "positive thinking" call out the skeptics who point out unchangeable adverse circumstances. They insist that hope is not empirically related to survival, and by "they", he means the internal Scully in his head who is scolding him, his constant companion. She balances him out, and yet, he knows her to be a secret optimist who wants these things to be true. Skeptics or not, he is a firm believer in the concept and its powers. Hope works where it results in goal-oriented behaviour that has an actual impact, grounded in the belief in personal agency and dependent upon the social conditions that facilitate agency. Otherwise, all hope would be empty and people would merely be coping. Otherwise, he would be a simple fool. A content, simple fool.

" _Why can't you just talk to me?"_

 _It seems that the quieter he gets, the angrier it makes her. She is waiting for something from him, some answer that will explain it all, a vague promise of change that he can't give. It's as if she is trying to undo some combination lock he has the numbers to, and he is refusing to give them to her. But he isn't. He just doesn't know them, either._

" _There's nothing to talk about. I just need to work, that's all."_

" _I agree, but that is not work." She gestures at the papers strewn across the coffeetable, the hibernating laptop balanced on top of a stack of books on government conspiracies, the empty coffee mug that has left stains on a discarded journal article on the SV40 virus in polio vaccines and its link to cancer._

" _I'll clean up later."_

" _That's not the point, Mulder!" She picks up the mug, and he almost reaches out to stop her, but it's the paper that has caught her eye. "SV40? That hasn't been used in vaccines in decades."_

" _Not true, they never had to get rid of all the batches; it was most likely used in oral vaccines until the 90s."_

 _She gives him that look again, the one that bothers him because they used to be partners; they used to have actual, lively discussions about this sort of thing. Now, coming home from work exhausted, she frowns at his research like it's a silly little hobby or, worse, a symptom of mental illness. She won't even engage, and so he doesn't talk about it, but then she isn't all right with that, either. Either way, he loses. But he would lose if he had no mission, too; she knows that._

" _I'm getting close to something here, Scully. I don't know what exactly, but-"_

" _You've been saying that, but it's just like last time. All this is not even a singular mission, it's disjointed. You're jumping from one idea to the next, you're holed up in here all day, you're either not sleeping or sleeping too much, you're not seeing anyone besides me-"_

" _I'm fine-"_

" _You're not fine! And I can't be your doctor, because I'm your…because I'm not objective. But as a physician and, more importantly, as someone who has known you for over two decades, I'm telling you that you are not fine. And I want to help you, but I can't if you won't let me."_

 _He spreads out his arms, opening his palms to her in a helpless gesture. "This is who I am, Scully, it's who I've always been. If I didn't have all this, there'd be no point. No point at all."_

 _She suddenly looks pretty damn hurt at that, her jaw dropping along with the volume of her voice. "Really?"_

" _I didn't mean it like that."_

 _But backpedalling won't work, not now that she has turned away from him to hang up her coat. She hasn't even sat down since coming home. This is not the time to be having this conversation._

" _Dana…" He walks up behind her, reaching for her shoulder, but she slips away from him, heading into the kitchen with purpose._

 _He is trailing behind her as he always does these days, while she is either away somewhere or back here trying to fix him._

 _She is starting to take food out of the fridge, since of course, he hasn't started cooking yet like he promised he would this morning._

" _I'll do it, you should go relax for a bit."_

" _I don't want to relax."_

" _O-kay, then…we could…cook together?" The attempt at charm falls flat._

" _You know, Mulder…" She turns around, closing the fridge behind her. "I can't keep looking back. Your sister, my sister, your parents, my father, your abduction, my abduction, our son, our lives…you don't have a monopoly on suffering."_

" _I know." The familiar stone in his stomach drops at her words. Through his fault, through his fault, through his most grievous fault. "I do know that."_

 _She smiles at him sympathetically, and it's the worst thing she could do right now as she leans against the counter, hugging her arms around her upper body. "There were things I wanted, too…"_

 _Another child. Another miracle that wasn't to happen. They don't talk about this anymore. They always knew it was an impossibility, and when this was confirmed through the years, they somehow arranged themselves with it, building their lives around the absence. "Me too."_

Hope. Otherwise known as: the positive expectation of her presence. He has this need to touch her, always has done. A hand on the back here, a fleeting squeeze of her fingers there, a brushing of skin against skin. It is something that may not have been entirely professional at first, or appropriate in the context of a working relationship – then again, when were the spooky files ever a "normal" working environment? It's not a possessive touch (he certainly doesn't _own_ her), a concerned touch (she can look out for herself), a needy touch (he is fine without constant hugs, thank you) or a sexual touch (well, most of the time). It's more as if his fingers are reaching out to her, following his eyes to reassure himself that she is really there. She is, quite literally, tangible. They are connected. If she were his Eurydice, he could not resist the temptation of looking back. He will always be looking over his shoulder for her. In a strange way, her touch may be the one thing he misses the most.

 _He turns it over in his hands, not quite believing it is real, running his fingers across its jagged edges. She has held on to this for twenty years. This stupid, small, meaningless item. It has travelled with her through everything from a time before. She has kept it, despite her initial insistence that it was simply a piece of scrap metal, "space junk" that held no special powers purely because it had been outside their atmosphere. It wasn't even a piece of evidence or something he had really thought about, just a little trinket he gave to her after he got it on their first NASA case, giving her a hard time for her skepticism and insisting she would change her mind. His fingers touch the engraving again, tracing the letters: 'Credo. – Scully.' The simple word says it all. It would be enough to get him choked up if they weren't in public and it all weren't so awkward._

 _He clears his throat, reaching across the table to cover her hand with his. "Thank you."_

 _She shrugs, playing it cool and pretending that this isn't the most thoughtful gift she could have given him twenty years to the day after their first meeting. "I was sick of having it lying around."_

" _Scully, I…I feel that…"_

" _Come on, it's not like I wrote you a love letter."_

" _No" he mutters. "It's not, dearest Dana. Still, to see you of all people admitting that you believe…can I record this?"_

" _Your Latin is rusty if you interpret this to mean that I believe in everything. It's more like…we try. We pursue knowledge we may never attain, it all comes crashing down and then we start all over."_

" _So we're basically Sisyphus."_

" _We are! And Camus told us we should imagine him happy, because sometimes, the struggle is enough."_

" _Ha. Well, just look at us…rolling our rock."_

Hope, its maintenance compounded by "what ifs". If he had stood by her rather than run, if they had been in this together, maybe there would have been another way to protect William than by giving him up. He keeps this thought locked deeply inside himself, never to be voiced to her, because he knows the effect it would have on her, on them. But he thinks she knows and, like a cancer, the idea has metastasized inside him, driving something between them as she torments herself with the past. It is all catching up with them now through these cases. If he had been less distant, if he had been a father to William… Their alternative life has been looming over them for fifteen years. The first few, hard ones were strangely bearable, when they were two people in survival mode, hiding from the FBI with only each other to rely on. There was no room to ruminate, no environment to raise a child in. The real danger crept up on them once they stopped running. Once they laid their heads down to rest, all the big and small question marks jumped out, and it all led back to the Pandora's box they opened twenty-four years ago.

" _Did you know that the old Catholic marriage vows actually used to say 'I want to love you', implying that love is a conscious effort rather than a feeling?"_

" _Are you trying to propose to me, Scully? I knew I was good, I just didn't know I was_ that _good."_

 _This gets him her famous eyeroll as she pulls back. "In your dreams."_

" _No, really, I must know what made you think of that."_

" _Shut up, Mulder. You're ruining it." She unhooks her leg from behind his, and its absence immediately feels cold to him._

 _He moves his face closer to hers and withdraws his arm from behind her, only to reach up and brush her now messy hair back from her face. She is so wonderfully, so perfectly imperfect, always making herself seem taller and more self-assured. Her breath blows against his neck as he leans in to kiss her forehead, her temple, her eyebrow. It sends little jolts through his body that scare him as she closes her eyes and leans into the touch. He has kissed every curve soft and hard, has seen her scars and she his. His adrenaline levels are still up from the intensity of it all, his senses heightened from that point they reach where they can't communicate with words anymore, only touches and feelings and exclamations of names. In here, they are strangely quiet._

" _Dana?"_

" _Mmh, Fox?" she says teasingly._

" _How come we only ever do this when I come over unannounced?"_

" _Isn't this why you come over unannounced?"_

" _Um…good point."_

" _We're keeping things separate, remember?"_

" _True, but how come you never come over?"_

 _She laughs, and it's the most beautiful sound so close to his ear. "Because you don't have a real bed."_

Hope. Somehow, it has always been closely tied to finding all the answers for him. If he could find that one, last piece, if he could somehow make the puzzle fit together, all would be well. If he could locate that which is missing, he would be whole. And yet he has built a life around these holes that are part of him, a whole existence based on it. He has the strength of his beliefs. Maybe the chase is the ends and means. And then he lost the chase, and lost…everything. And he didn't even realise until it was too late and the rock had long since rolled over Sisyphus, and she was gone. But she is back now. Not back in the same way, of course, but the way they work together now, anticipating each other's moves perfectly without speaking even after all this time, feels like home. He needs this, their intellectual connection, more than anything. He feels alive again.

 _The stars don't look gold or silver to him. They don't twinkle in mysterious allure; they don't call to him. An entire childhood and youth spent gazing at them willing himself away, and all he wants to do now is to scream at them and resent them for simply being huge balls of gas refusing an answer. They are mocking him in their immobility, their deaths thousands of years ago, while he stands here alone. He is infinitely small in comparison, just a human on top of a mountain in the middle of the night, surrounded by the deepest darkness and the rustling of black trees as the moisture from the ground seeps through the soles of his tennis shoes._

 _He has come again, although he knows he will find no answers here. It is his eighteenth time, and skimming the terrain by daylight has not been much more successful than waiting for something or someone at night. Whatever there is to find, he won't find here. And yet he had to come here, because it is the last place Scully was, the place where he tries to feel her presence. He had to come today, because today, Margaret Scully all but told him that she believes that her daughter lies buried somewhere up on Skyland Mountain, murdered by a monster. And this is not true, because it can't be true. It can't be true and it must be true at the same time, a truth he must learn to accept. He has to let her go._

 _So here he sits, waiting. Gazing. Longing, his mind full of the potential connections he studied today, looking for patterns that always seem just out of reach. At which point do "patterns" become the ravings of a madman thinking God is speaking to him through his daily paper? None of it makes sense, but it_ almost _does. He just needs that one missing puzzle piece, just like with Samantha. He is her partner, he was supposed to protect her. He is supposed to have hope, he is supposed to trust and believe that she is still out there. But all he knows is that on the off chance that she is still alive, they are hurting her right now and there is nothing he is doing about it. If… He has failed her. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees her blood and hair on that bracelet._

 _In the Bhagavad Gita, hope and success are related to the correct performance of rituals. So what is the task he needs to perform? He will do anything, even pray. He will offer himself up. "Please come back."_

 _The stars refuse to answer._

Hope. She has grasped both his hands quite firmly, certain in her reach and the proposal to "open their hearts" and "truly listen". It all sounds a bit hippie dippy for her, like she sampled some of that placebo herself, but sure, okay. He can go along with this, waiting for some external sign that will never come and that neither of them needs. He can be that person again. Maybe. Wonders never cease.

The sun warms both their faces, bouncing off her red hair, bathing everything in a surreal brightness. She is smiling. On days like this, it is easy.

Yet in some ways, he is still searching for her.


End file.
